Saturday

It Comes Down To Beans

I sip my joe,-not french roast-now it's columbian blendswith my freedom toast; then I recallthat Juan sells more than beans-futility smells like coffee.

I spread my toastwhile I watch CNN,or the local news-MSNBC if it's LIVE-everyone accounts a common storywith alternate takes on the end.Inbetween bites, over sips I learn

the world has turnedorange as I slept;lines have been dug in sand,last cards dealt in dead-men's hands-unconcious notes on my sports pagemake me wonder who will be left to readthe memoirs of a post-humous poet.

GRIND IT UP AND SPIT IT OUT, THEY SAID

Eat Your Words

"I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't."— Dylan Thomas